by Robert Reed
Cornell closed the envelope’s flap, deciding to wait. His hands were shaking as he rewrapped the tab, and he was aware of his own breathing and the big rubbery heart inside his chest. Setting the envelope on his lap, he said, “I was wondering.”
“Yes?”
Cornell looked at him for a long moment, then asked, “Could you do a second job for me?”
“Certainly.”
“I mean now. In the next few days.” He waited for a moment, then said, “I’m going back to work, and you can’t reach me after that.”
The face was composed, just a hint of curiosity betrayed in the narrowed eyes. “I have several clients now. I won’t be able to start for a few weeks.” He paused, then said, “Corporate clients. Very involved work.”
“What if I pay double?”
A shake of the head. “Sorry.”
“Thought so.” Cornell made a show of resignation, then added, “Even if I’m right, you wouldn’t find anything.”
A blink, a knowing expression.
“It’s just that I have a crazy idea.” He had always had it, or it had come to him two minutes ago. He couldn’t be sure which was true, and he explained nothing, simply saying, “If I’m wrong, I’m nuts. And if I’m right, you wouldn’t find enough clues anyway.”
“Are you baiting me, Mr. Novak?”
“Never.” A big grin.
The man sat back in his squeaky old chair. “Tell me what you need. Maybe I can find an extra hour somewhere.”
Cornell fed him slivers of the story, leaving out the strangest and most dangerous elements. He mentioned suspicions without drawing definite lines. And when he paused, he saw a thin smile blossoming, eyes turning distant, and that smooth unmemorable voice was saying:
“Family histories take less than an hour.”
“Think so?”
A shake of the head. “I’ll eat my supper here. I’ll do the work tonight, all right?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“And I’ll call you,” the detective promised.
Where will I be? Cornell wondered. Driving, probably. He could reach Mom’s by tonight, if he drove fast enough. “Shall I call you? At least tell you where I am?”
“No, I can track you down,” the man boasted. Then he asked, “Are you planning to see her?”
Why not?
The detective sighed, then said, “Do me one favor. Read the files first, will you?”
Cornell picked up the envelope, promising himself to wait. Somehow patience seemed essential. Years of ignorance, of guesses and fantasies, and suddenly that ignorance seemed valuable in its own right. Read the records, he knew, and his mother would be reduced to exactly who she was—
“Read everything,” he heard. “Before. Please.”
“I will.”
“And I’ll call you this evening.” The bland face gave the mildest grin. “Are you feeling all right, Mr. Novak?”
“Sure,” he lied.
“You look tired.” And now curiosity showed itself, the man leaning forward and asking, “Exactly what do you do for a living?”
“Don’t you know?”
He leaned back, a little bruised.
“Porsche,” said Cornell. “Neal. She used to play pro basketball, and she’s from Texas.”
“I remember, Mr. Novak. I’ll have what you need tonight.” The thinnest of smiles. “Or the work is free. How’s that?”
It was late, almost ten o’clock, when Cornell checked into the motel and got his overnight bag upstairs, lights coming on for him and the fancy room computer already knowing his name, speaking with a woman’s soothing voice, asking if he would like a drink or anything from the late-night kitchen.
“No, thanks. Nothing.”
“Then good-night, sir. And sleep well.”
Except he didn’t feel like sleep. Hours of driving hadn’t fatigued him in the slightest. Traffic and reading maps had just made him more awake, more alert, and he sat on the edge of his bed with the wall-sized TV set on CNN. It was another special about the moon, about its Change. They were showing shots from several vantage points; United Europe and Japan had their own high-tech telescopes, as did the CEA. It was the new Russian operation that had gone on-line just a few days ago. Above it, in what should have been a starry night sky, was the moon’s own gray craters and jumbled gray highlands. Luna had been turned inside out, all right. The same as the Earth, right down to the lower albedo when seen from a distance. The short horizon was the same, but without an atmosphere it felt as if he was standing on a dusty hillside, stuck at the bottom of a tremendous spherical cavern.
Explanations. Experts were arranged in a horseshoe, sitting up straight while cameras panned over their exhausted faces. As a body, they had workable, reasonable explanations to offer tonight.
Cornell remembered what F. Smith had told him, not two days ago. It was the new Russian telescopes that had caused this Change. There was almost no doubt. “Both times,” she had claimed, “people had asked the sky to deliver so much information. So much data. So many photons and gamma rays and neutrinos, and the system has its limits.”
He had listened intently, too stunned to ask questions.
“Limits,” she had repeated. Then she’d explained how a world, presumably any world, had limits defined by its size. The moon, being smaller, was easier to Change than the earth. What had been a great mystery was answered, finally and decisively, and it wasn’t the flashy answer that everyone had expected, either.
“Our Change didn’t happen because people were ready for the aliens.” It was a scientist talking on the TV, but it could have been F. Smith. They had the same wry smiles, the same steely gazes. “It didn’t happen because we became smart enough to understand the event, and there’s no godlike species waving its limbs to remake the sky. It’s just a matter of machinery. The mechanisms involved. On both worlds, we built enough telescopes to suck in more information than the sky could supply. And that’s what causes a Change. And the Change seems irreversible. We’ve already shut down the lunar observatories, but the switch has been turned.”
Cornell turned down the sound, then unpacked tomorrow’s clothes and his bathroom items, finding the manila envelope at the bottom of the bag. All day he had ignored it. Now he let himself sit back against the firm pillows, opening the flap and promising himself that he would only recheck the address. Just that. But then his fingers removed everything, and he breathed and looked up at the giant screen, at the soundless experts, then breathed and looked down, eyes focusing on the paper beneath the address.
And the paper beneath it.
And so on.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” said the detective. It was after one o’clock, and Cornell replied:
“No, I’m awake.”
Audio only. The sheepish voice told him, “I’m sorry to take so long. I got an early jump on it, but … well, I’m having trouble. There is something, I just can’t tell….”
“How soon?”
The man said, “Tomorrow, maybe. No, I’m sure. I’ll get you something definitive by tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” Cornell picked up the documents and newspaper clippings, tax forms and assorted profiles. “For everything, thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
A long pause.
Then the detective asked, “Did you read the material?”
“Twice.”
A pause, then, “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Are you going to see her?”
“Sure.” He flipped to the back pages. “Will she be home?”
“Most likely.”
“How do you know?”
“By studying her phone records, her electricity use.” With a calm professional pride, he explained, “Occupied homes have signatures. Power surges, that sort of thing.”
Cornell said, “Clever.”
“She’s an interesting woman, all right.” The voice sounded impressed and wary, in equal measures. “I’ve seen
her kind before. Tough and resourceful.”
“Yeah.”
“Smart.”
“That’s my mom.”
The man nearly added another word. Dangerous? Remorseless? Or did he want to say beautiful? But he caught himself, perhaps deciding to drop the subject. Instead he said, “Well, have a good day tomorrow. Good luck.”
“And to you,” Cornell managed.
“Call me,” said the detective. “Afterward, all right?”
But Cornell didn’t hear him, turning back to the newspaper clipping from Auckland, New Zealand. The headline read: American Woman Denies Charges, Pleads Innocent. And beside the words was a grainy photograph of a woman who might have been his mother. The hair was too fair, the nose had been doctored, and her breasts looked augmented. But he knew the eyes, dark and unchanged. Cornell took a breath and held it, then heard the distant tone and realized that the phone line was disconnected, an electric hum filling the room, filling the universe.
There was a tall gate and a taller fence, trees and more trees, and nothing resembling an address visible from the road. This was the most exclusive house in an exclusive neighborhood, at least several acres of forest between him and the house. The gate was closed and locked. No guards, but there was undoubtedly some kind of security service, sensors and private police. Cornell parked on the street—a winding pot-holed affair with next to no traffic—and he climbed the gate, dropping to the crushed rock of the driveway and walking for several hundred yards, feeling nervous and tired after three hours of bad sleep, yet alert, too. The moment was squeezing his adrenal glands dry, and frazzled neurons were marshaling their energies, sparking faster now as he came around the last long bend.
It wasn’t a mansion. At least Cornell had expected something larger, more splendid and older. Instead it seemed almost too new, built from modern woods cultured in giant tanks—glossy and dark, almost plastic in appearance—and from stone chiseled from underneath these very hills. Two stories tall; no trees around the house itself; a faintly Spanish design bathed in a sudden zone of bright sunshine. A three-car garage on the right, doors down … and an ornate marble fountain where a winged woman poured an endless stream of water into a basin, goldfish huddling in the scarce shadows.
Cornell mounted the stone stairs, telling himself that he’d ring the bell and talk to the house computer, explaining himself. Somehow he didn’t expect to find his mother. She wouldn’t be home, today of all days, or she would refuse to open the door. Then a carload of security men would come, red lights whirring, and he’d be carted off to the city jail. He could see it that clearly. He went as far as imagining himself handcuffed, helpless, catching a glimpse of a curtain parting, someone looking down at him on the sly.
That’s what he expected. What he wanted. What would be easiest.
But he didn’t even make the front door, or the bell. Suddenly the door opened of its own volition—he couldn’t see anyone, at least—and he paused on the top step for an instant. When he saw the face, small and pretty, he seemed to know it. How did he know it? He felt stupid, forgetting where he was and who this was … the strange woman saying, “Yes?” with a mixture of emotions. There was suspicion and caution and a courage. Women who lived alone rarely opened their doors to strange men, and she didn’t seem to even suspect who he was. “What is it? Why are you here?” A glance at the empty driveway, then she growled, “You’re trespassing.”
That temper. He’d heard about it for years, had tasted it in himself, and hearing it in her voice was a signal. The switch. Suddenly he knew where he was and who this was; he was outside himself, watching the scene with amusement and astonishment. Mom stood at her door, ready to slam it shut if he took another step forward—he knew it by her stance, by her expressive face—and suddenly he heard his own voice saying:
“You’re my mother.”
With such calmness. He hadn’t believed he could ever sound so calm. Then he added, “I found you,” and he was like a little boy winning the game. “I found you.” As if she should hug him and give him chocolate for winning it. As if that’s what the rules said.
Later, replaying everything in his mind, Cornell remembered the blooming surprise in his mother’s face and how surprise made her features taut and more youthful. She wobbled, just for an instant, and she seemed ready to shut the door in panic. But she didn’t. She squeezed at the fancy brass handle, and Cornell opened his wallet, showing her photographs of the two of them, then saying, “You look well. You do.”
She nodded, then with a breathless little voice said, “Corny?”
“Yes.”
And she said, “My, my.” She swallowed and took a step backward, collecting her wits. He felt sorry for her, which he hadn’t expected. She seemed deceptively ordinary, saying, “My, my,” with a stronger voice. Then she said, “Come inside, if you want.” Another glance at the driveway. “How did you get here?”
He told her.
And she said, “Come in,” once more.
The house, he realized, was the antithesis of Dad’s house. There was space and a rigorous cleanliness, a sense of order that had started at the gate and culminated here in the entranceway. Cornell felt cleaner just for standing in this air. He smelled wildflowers. He saw a large staircase and dark wood—cultured walnut, probably—and a ceiling two full stories overhead. Mom said, “Here,” and led him into a spacious living room, polished stone giving way to deep white carpeting. Everything was perfect, like the homes in decorating magazines. Giant couches; tasteful chairs; fancy knick-knacks set on ornate built-in shelves. Comfortable old money had done this work. New money would have brought splashes of color and inspired mistakes. And she let him step closer, asking him, “How are you, Corny?”
He didn’t know. He had never felt less sure of his state of mind. But he managed to say, “Fine,” and she offered him a drink. What would he like? “Water?” It came out as a question, but she didn’t notice. She vanished into some distant kitchen, leaving him to wander about the room, exploring its details. A huge TV was in a corner, a soap opera playing with the sound muted; there were National Geographies in a stack, their bindings never bent; a stylized camel had been cut from obsidian and set on the glass-topped coffee table; well-cleaned fireplace tools, brassy and bright, rested beside an only slightly blackened fireplace.
“Your water,” his mother announced. Then, “Corny.”
Water for two, perfect cubes of ice glittering inside tall glasses. He sipped and knew it wasn’t tapwater. She offered him a seat, gracious and flustered and smiling without pause. In her mid-fifties, yet she looked forty. Clean taut cheeks and minimal crow’s-feet. Not athletic, but fit. With a very unfashionable load of melanin in her skin. Her love of the sun hadn’t aged her, had it? Blond hair was cut in a simple, elegant style. A girl’s style. Only her voice had an old roughness, just a hint of it, and those white, white teeth had to be fancy caps.
“How’s your water?”
“Fine.” He nodded and looked at the melting cubes.
“Well,” she offered, “isn’t this something?”
He could hear the ice, little fissures opening along lines of weakness. Then he looked up and said, “Dad’s doing okay.”
She blinked.
She said, “Well,” and then, “Good.”
Then she said, “You do rather look like him.”
That was funny. He didn’t tell her how everyone else thought the opposite, that he was her child. Instead he told her, “Nobody knows that I’ve come here.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Except the guy that tracked you down for me.”
Nothing. The face showed nothing, not even in the clear unblinking eyes. Cornell realized she had recovered her balance, probably in the kitchen, and from here on it would be harder to catch her off guard. She was sitting opposite him, crossing her legs. Dark trousers with red highlights; white socks and no shoes; a light short-sleeved blouse. The air-conditioning was pushing the temperature below 70,
but her only concession to the chill was a lacy white pillow held in her lap, eyes glancing over at the TV, then back at him.
“You know,” she began, “I’ve thought about finding you. But it’s difficult, after so long.”
“It is tough,” he agreed.
She became more confident, saying, “You can blame me for running.” A quick pause, then she added, “Don’t be patient with me.”
A smile. Cornell saw the intoxicating smile, feeling its pull. It was as if she was trying to cast a spell on him, against his will, bringing him into her state of mind.
“I don’t know what you remember,” she mentioned, eyes joining the smile. “You were so little. It was so long ago.”
“It must have been tough,” he conceded. “Living with Dad, I mean.”
“Tough.” A sigh. “Yes, it was.”
He watched her.
“Sometimes.” Then she took a dramatic sip of her fancy spring water, adding, “I was too young, which is my fault. I was a child pretending to be your mother.”
He nodded, saying nothing.
“And your father’s all right?”
On the brink of insanity, but he didn’t mention it. Instead he said, “He went with Pete on a long trip, just recently—”
“Still chasing little green men?”
He didn’t bristle with the question’s tone. “Yeah. Always.”
“And Pete helps?”
“Always has.”
She seemed a little shocked, just for an instant. Then, “How is Pete? Still married to Elaine?”
“And still next door, too.”
“Really?” She hadn’t expected that answer. “Huh,” she said. Then, “Well, that’s nice.”
Cornell sipped his water, nodding.
“And what about you, Corny? Are you married?”
“Never.”
She studied him, always careful.
Then he said, “I work for the government. The CEA? On a top secret project in California.” He said it point-blank, no hesitations. “We go through these things called quantum intrusions, into alien worlds.”
Mom kept her face still, her eyes half-closing and then coming open again. Then came a thin, forced smile, nothing else to offer.
